


Sometimes

by Morinok



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, i'm gonna add tags as I update...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morinok/pseuds/Morinok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 year old Jim was abandoned by Uncle Frank, leaving him completely out in the open. Then Orion Slave Traders got to him, and he was taken, taken out into space to be auctioned off as a Slave. But due to his bitter and fierce nature, nobody wanted him...nobody wanted him for seven years. That is, until someone comes along to set him free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Words and Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this fanfic has a lot of firsts for me. First m/m, first long fic (on this website), first slavery fic, blah, blah, blah. It's also written is a slightly different style than I usually do, so...bear along with me as I find my little niche in this style! Hope you enjoy! :3

Sometimes, words are never enough. Sometimes, they’re more than enough. The magic of words is something that can’t quite be explained with…words. We use words to explain art, but we can’t explain words using art. Words are simply…words. The beauty of them is hidden deep within the words themselves, waiting to be unlocked by a poet, a novelist; a journalist. Words are the universe’s greatest mystery, yet it’s how we communicate every day. Every word that you put down means something so simple, but when you put them together, they can shatter kingdoms, murder emperors and inspire people. Words do something art could never hope to accomplish. 

Words are Magic

But there are times when words are used to hurt. And what do we make of that?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Kirk, get your dirty ass in here!”

No. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Curling up into a ball, Jim waited while the loud stomps of his uncle passed by the closest he was hiding in. It was a small closest—Frank probably thought it was too small to house him. But he was like an octopus: if his head could fit, his body would follow. Hidden among the blankets and towels and laundry detergent, he was safe from the world. For now.

He heard the whistle of a communicator, and then the angry voice of his Uncle.

“Winona, I can’t put up with this kid any longer! Get your sweet little ass back here now because I’m leaving tomorrow whether you’re still off planet or not!”

Jim suppressed the urge to whoop. Instead, he curled into a smaller ball, smiling into his fists. Frank would finally be gone. He would be free from the tyrant that was his uncle. At last!

“What do you mean you’re tied up with work? I don’t care, drop it right now or I’m leaving! I DON’T CARE, YOU HEAR ME? I’M LEAVING.”

He winced. Frank never yelled. Sure, he raised his voice more than was probably normal, but he never actually yelled. But this…this was yelling. This was screaming. Screaming in anger and desperation. Jim grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around his body. He would be safe. 

“YOU’VE ALREADY LOST ONE BOY, WINONA; I DON’T CARE IF YOU LOSE ANOTHER BECAUSE OF YOUR FUCKING WORK.”

Jim whimpered, unable to keep the noise from spilling out. Sam had gone the week before; the same day Jim had attempted suicide. He closed his eyes as tight as he could, unable to get the images out of his head. The ravine, opening up beneath him. The sweaty grip he had on the crumbling ground. The officer clad in all black. No, no, no. He had locked those memories up good and tight in the back of his head. That no-good Frank was not going to make them come out again.

“ALRIGHT. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT JIM? GOOD, NEITHER DO I. I’M LEAVING, AND DON’T EXPECT ME TO BE HERE WHEN YOU GET BACK.”

There was a crash of a communicator being thrown to the ground, and then an angry, grumbling Frank. He heard screams of frustration as Frank stomped up stairs. Jim waited with bated breath. Had Frank been bluffing? Was he going to leave or—? He froze. There was more stomping; angry stomping that was coming from the stairs.

“Good for nothing whore of a sister…doesn’t care…stupid woman…stupid, fucking Starfleet...good for nothing boy, where is he…I’m gonna wring his neck….” The grumbling continued as a CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK rang out behind Frank. 

The door was thrown open, and then it crashed behind him, rattling the whole house.

And then there was silence. 

Jim moved slightly; the boards squeaked underneath him. Piling up the blankets, he slowly…ever so slowly, opened the closet door. More silence. No Frank, screaming at him to clean the dishes or go to his room. Only silence. Crawling on his knees, Jim moved out of the closest, closing the door behind him. Blowing out a huff of relief, he ruffled his own hair.

It was just him.

No one else.

Him, and silence.

Looking around, he saw the dust above the old fireplace, a relic from the pre-warp days. The picture frames on it were cracked, some face down and others completely turned away. They were all pictures of Winona and George. Jim looked away. He knew there was too much resemblance for Winona’s liking. That’s why she had left in the first place, wasn’t it? Under the guise of a “Starfleet Mission” she had fled the house a few years back, leaving her brother to take care of her two children. Well, “take care of”. It was more Jim taking care of the drunken uncle than anything.

He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly. 

He was alone.

It had been what he had wanted for so long, but…what now? 

He already missed the spoken words—however crude they were most of the time—that had been his constant companion in the house. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

And when the silence had continued for far too long, Jim cried.

He hid in his bedroom, Sam’s bedroom; even Frank’s bedroom and cried for hours on end. The silence never ended, even when he wanted it to the most. Even when he finally got up and went shopping for the first time in two weeks, there was silence surrounding him. He didn’t hear the woman asking for his money, or at least he pretends that he didn’t. He grabbed the food and runs, runs and runs until he’s sure they can’t find him. He’s lost.

Jim hid in the books that his mother had left. He read them until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and even after that he continued to read. The words soothed him like nothing else could. When reading about fantastic princes and princesses, a daring woman flying across the Atlantic and an island made of food, he forgot that he was alone. He forgot the silence.   
Two months rolled by. School was going to start in another, but he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to show the others that the silence had attacked him, had engulfed him and no one could get him out. So he hid. He hid until he got hungry or had to go to the bathroom, but once those things were dealt with, he hid again. 

Even the words couldn’t save him.

And when the words could no longer save him, there was nothing to protect him from the men.

They came in the night, quiet and sneaky. He was hiding in Sam’s room that night, a fort built around him made of pillows, blankets and a hologram. Jim was looking at the hologram, one of his parents when they were younger—before the Darkness engulfed George—when he heard the squeaking of the stairs.

He froze. 

The silence was supposed to be engulfing him, but instead…there were stairs squeaking. Jim turned off the hologram and retreated farther back into his fort. He was silent. No one could hear him. But he could hear them. The whispers exchanged between the men were in a strange language he couldn’t understand. 

“He has to be here somewhere…,” one finally said in English.

Jim stiffened. They were looking for him. Perhaps they had always been looking for him. But Jim was a master of hiding. He had perfected it long ago, with Frank, but his skills had only grown since then. He could hide from anyone.

“In here…”

Silence. Then…a creeeeeaaaakkk of the door. The door to Sam’s bedroom. Jim grabbed a few stray blankets and pillows and hugged them close to his body. They would never find him. No one ever did.

“Come here little boy…,” the man crooned in a low voice. “We’re not gonna hurt you….”

“Nefol, he is not going to come out that way! We have to be forceful!” 

“I will not use force if I don’t have to. That last one nearly scratched my face off! I am not having a repeat of that incident…Now come on little human boy, we know you’re in here!”

He could hear them moving forward, and only shuffled back into his fort. Under him, the floor squeaked.

“A-ha!” one of the males cried out, Jim’s eyes widening with fear. “There you are!”

There was no time to struggle. The minute he cried out, there was a hand over his mouth. Jim caught a look of his attacker—a bald male, but not human! His skin was green, looking almost black-looking in the lack of light. An Orion. He was unable to scream, unable to move, unable to do anything. A bag was placed over his head, and everything suddenly disappeared out of sight. 

“Let go of me!” he screamed, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Let go of me!”

“He’s a feisty one! How much do you think he’ll go for?” one of the males asked with a chuckle.

Jim’s stomach lurched as he was suddenly thrown over the Orion’s back, all breath being pushed out of him as his diaphragm connected with the male’s shoulder. The Orions chuckled to each other.

“Can’t go for more than a couple thousand credits! He’s too scrawny!” His rear was patted firmly, and Jim wriggled in discomfort.   
He was being kidnapped. The silence was letting him go, the words abandoning him while he was stolen from them. Jim was being taken by Orions, and everybody knew what happened when you were taken by Orions. Slavery. A hard life working in fields or mines or a posh house lightyears away from Earth. 

“PUT ME DOWN!” Jim screamed at the top of his lungs.

His words were muffled by the bag, but he was still audible. He thrashed around. He would not be subjected to these men.   
“My mother’s going to catch you!” He screamed. “She’ll find you and rip your lungs out!”

The Orions laughed in amusement. “Your mother, huh? We heard you’ve been alone for over two months, now! I don’t think your mommy’s coming for you!”

Jim would not be discouraged by their words. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening. He would wake up among his blankets and pillows, a book clutched in his hands and the morning light shining down on his face. Sam would be calling his name; his mom would bring him a nice breakfast in bed and there would be no Frank. This was all a dream. He wasn’t being kidnapped—maybe he had read a story about a kid being kidnapped in the middle of the night. But he wasn’t being kidnapped! It was all a dream!  
Too bad he hadn’t had a dream since Frank arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They threw him in the back of something metal, pain coursing through his entire body when he collided with something equally as metal. He groaned, sitting up. The binds on his wrists were untied—he threw the bag off of his head.

He was in some strange metal compartment, almost…like a dog cage. Jim frowned and curled into a little ball. They couldn’t hurt him if he wasn’t there.

“Hey…hey kid?”

His head jerked over to the source of the voice. It was coming from another small cage, just barely illuminated by the lights in the vehicle…or ship…whatever they were in. He could see a pair of blue eyes, and a thick mane of blonde hair. A human. She smiled at him.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Tentatively he moved to the edge of his crate. 

“My name’s Janice,” she said in a quiet, broken voice. “What’s yours?”

She extended a hand through the bars of the cell. It was a slim, pale hand, but he could see the red lashes on it. He looked up at her face, and there were tears welling in her eyes. Jim reached out for her hand.

“It’s Jim. Jim Kirk.”

Janice tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Well, Jim, we’re going to be in this together, you understand?” she said in a whisper.

He nodded as she gripped his hand tightly. Jim winced. There was going to be a bruise on his hand, but he found that he didn't care. If what she looked like was any indicator, a small bruise on his hand was going to be the least of his injuries.

“Yes, ma’am.”


	2. The Disobedience of the Slave That Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's first auction, and beyond....

He held onto Janice’s hand. It was the only anchor he had. Janice squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. Four months. Four months had gone by since he had been stolen from his silence and his words and thrown into an unfamiliar world of green skin and screams.

“It’s going to be alright,” Janice whispered in his ear.

Jim stepped closer to the blonde woman. She was only a few years older than his 12 years, but was much taller. He felt safe around her. Jim knew it wasn’t going to be alright. It never was. The red marks all along his skin were proof of that. He hadn’t gone willingly. He hadn’t been kept willingly. Jim was unlike the others—while they were content to accept their face, Jim wasn’t. He had more red marks on his skin than any of the others.

“Number 22991,” a voice droned.

The line stepped forward. Jim took a deep breath in. 

“This young human male is in pristine condition,” the commentator droned. “He is 16 earth years old. He is obedient, willing to do housework and cooking. Warning: he does have a slight twitch in his left eye. The bid starts at 200 credits. Do I hear 200 credits?”

Numbers were thrown out left and right, rising and rising until the boy was sold. Another number was called out and the line stepped forward. Seven more until him. Seven more until his fate was decided based on how much somebody paid for him.   
“You’re strong, Jim, you’ll go to someone good,” Janice whispered.

But he didn’t want to go to someone good. He didn’t want to go to anyone. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to run away where no one could ever find him again. He wanted to go back to his books and his silence and he wanted to bury himself in it. But he couldn’t. Instead, he nodded for Janice’s sake.

“I know I will,” he whispered back, squeezing her hand.

Jim brought her hand up his lips and kissed her knuckles softly, careful to avoid the lashes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a smile forming on her lips.

“You will go to someone wonderful,” he said softly to her hand.

“Thank you, Jim,” she said, and when he turned around he could see tears welling in her eyes. 

Janice didn’t cry often. The only times he had seen her cry was the first day he met her, and that day. She was strong—stronger than anyone else there. Jim had cried when they whipped him, when they slowly dug knives into his skin and tried beat him into submission. But Janice didn’t. Everyone else did. Janice never cried. But there she was, crying of happiness. No, not of happiness. Of relief.

“Number 39297,” the commentator called,

Jim stiffened. He looked down at the number pinned to his pants. 39297. Orion males closed in on him, grabbing his arms. No, no, no they couldn’t do this they couldn’t sell him he was free he was not a bird trapped in a cage he was Jim Kirk his father was George Kirk no-win scenarios didn’t exist he was free he was—

“NO!” He screamed, thrashing against the guards. “NO YOU CAN’T DO THIS! LET GO OF ME! LET GO OF ME!”

His cries were ignored by the guards. He was dragged up the stairs, his legs thrashing under him. He would not be the property of some pervert who was going to use him for no knew what! He was James Tiberius Kirk and he was not going to be a slave!  
“And here is…um…he is a…uh, healthy male,” the commentator stuttered as he continued to thrash around. “He is..um…12 years of age…um…rowdy, yes, but I promise is a good buy!”

“NO!” he screamed. “I AM NOT PROPERTY! YOU CANNOT BUY ME! I AM NOT FOR SALE!”

“He is…uh…strong, good for farm work!” the commentator tried, but the audience was already put off.

“LET GO OF ME!” 

Jim managed to squirm out of their grasps, but only after he stepped on their feet. Unknowing of the distance from the ground, he fell straight to his hands and knees. He looked up. The audience was staring at him with wide eyes. Disappointed eyes. Terrified eyes. It was impossible to categorize the expressions they were looking at him with. He was a beast, let out of his cage. He was no longer James Kirk, the son of the esteemed George Kirk and Winona Kirk. He was an animal.

Jumping to his feet, he ran past the guards and straight into Janice. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her clavicle. 

“Don’t let them sell me,” he murmured into her skin.

She sheltered Jim with her arms. In Janice’s arms, no harm could come to him. They had to take him out of her arms for anything bad to happen. And this time, he was not going to let that happen. Not now, not ever. 

“Shh…shh, Jim, it’s going to be alright,” she whispered, running her hands through his hair. He let out a sigh of relief. In her arms, he was just a boy. He was a boy wanting to be saved.

“Let go of him,” he heard a rough voice say behind him.

He tightened his grip around her ribs.

“Can’t this be done differently?” she begged the guards. “He’s just a boy!”

“Let. Go.”

Her grip tightened around him.

“No.”

But then there were suddenly warm, large hands gripping his deltoids, and he was being ripped, thrown away from Janice. He let out a sharp cry, but was suddenly thrown over the Guard’s shoulder—like that day not four months ago—and was carried to the stage.

Jim’s feet hit the ground with a solid thump. Disorientated and his head throbbing, he was only half-aware of his ankles and wrists were being shackled to the floor. When he finally was able to understand what was going on, he had no room to move. He was forced to look out on the audience, to see their disgusted faces. The shirt he was wearing was torn now, probably from the struggles. He breathed raggedly, his chest moving up and down heavily. He glared at the audience.

“Um…well, this is Number 39297…again…he is a human male, 12 years of age…he is strong for his age, and will be a wonderful addition to any farm workers you may have….”

There were no warnings tacked onto the end of the commentator’s speech. Everyone already knew the warnings. 

“Starting at…150 credits?”

There was silence. No one put their hand up.

“No offers? Um…140 credits?”

Silence.

“100? 50? 25? I will sell him for 10 credits, and that is the final offer!” 

And yet, even at the price of 10 credits, no one raised their hand. The entire room was silent—it was welcome, he hadn’t heard silence in four months oh god how he had missed it—until the commentator banged his gavel.

“Well…um…Number 39297, make your way back to your cell….”

Jim was unshackled and this time, he willingly went with them. He locked eyes with Janice: her eyebrows were furrowed, tears rolling down her cheeks. He nodded once at her—you can do this Janice, I know you can, go, be happy—before turning away. Janice was going to leave him, he knew that. How had he not noticed this before? For four months he had been told stories by Janice, stories of slaves becoming princesses and princes, consorts and politicians. But those were once in a lifetime stories. Those didn’t happen to Jim Kirk. He was a dirty little boy who would never become anything more than a slave. 

Janice could do it, though. Where he couldn’t follow orders, she could. She could make her way up the ladder, and she could do something great. He couldn’t. 

“Get in there, you filthy rat!” the guard hissed, pushing him into the cell.

He turned around and spat at the ground. The eyes of the Orion flared, and he took a step forward.

“Utula!”

The Orion stopped in its tracks, and looked over to where the voice was coming from. Jim looked too, and immediately stepped back. It was an Orion woman. Her green skin glowed in the light of the cells, her eyes dark, trailing down Jim’s body like he was nice piece of meat she was just dying to get at. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed at the guard.

“He spat at me, Miss Devia! He deserves to be punished!”

She held up a hand. “No. He is a slave: he is to be respected. Besides, if he is damaged too badly, no one will buy him!” She looked over at Jim, eyes raking him again. “That is…when we have another chance to sell him….”

He grimaced. Of course. They would want to try again. They would always try again. He was a human, unwelcome in the Orion cells. He had to be sold as quickly as possible. And if they couldn’t…they would kill him. 

“Of course…Miss Devia,” the Guard grumbled, stepping back to his post.

She smiled at him sweetly, and Jim could see the lust clouding his eyes. He held his breath, trying to breathe in as little as he possibly could of the woman’s pheromones. She stepped closer to the bars of the cell, looking straight into his eyes.

“Your name is Jim Kirk, is it not?” she asked, her voice silky.

He nodded.

“Hmm…you are a lovely one,” she said appreciatively. “Come here, I want to get a better look at you.”

Jim didn’t move. 

She giggled, a light chime of a laugh. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jim. I just want to get a better look at you,” she said with another giggle. She beckoned him with a single finger, and he found that he could not resist. 

He stepped closer, closer to the Orion woman and closer to the bars. She hummed lightly, looking at his face. “You have freckles,” she noted, reaching across the bars and brushing a long fingernail across the bridge of his nose. “I believe that is considered ‘cute’ on Earth….Oh, and those eyes! Such a brilliant blue! It is a wonder that someone did not buy you…I think you’d be worth the trouble, considering those beautiful looks….Such a pity.”

Jim pulled away from her grasp, holding in his breath when she pouted at him. He had breathed in too much of the pheromones.   
“Get away from me,” he hissed.

The Orion woman shrugged and lazily swaggered away, swinging her hips in such a way the guards were left staring after her. The minute she was gone from view, the guards snapped back to their posts. Jim couldn’t help but scoff. They were suckers. Sitting on the floor, he waited for the auctions to end.

~~~~~~~~

And so that’s how it went. The slave ship would travel to yet another auction gallery, and the slaves would line up for their turn to be auctioned off. Jim would fight, no one would bet on him, and he’d be sent back to his cell. The cycle continued. Jim watched as slave after slave of every race and species were auctioned off to the highest bidder while he stayed; the single constant in a world of fluidity. 

Eventually they gave up. Soon Jim was no longer ordered to line up with the slaves—he was ordered to clean up the cells while the slaves were out, stock them with new hay and water, and then return to his cell. They would go to another place where they would pick up new slaves, and he would be unofficially put in charge of teaching all the newbies how things operated. He made sure none of the younger ones were hurt too badly or get in trouble too much. He was like their mother and father all at once.  
But the Orions treated him like he was shit.

“Hey, pretty boy, get over here!” one guard screamed at him, his mouth open and food spilling out.

He was 19. He’d been the Orions personal slave boy for seven years. He had been off the market for the last five, and although he hated to admit it, if he had behaved himself…he would’ve gone for a lot of money. Some of the other slave girls, before they got shipped off, were said to giggle over him. He told himself it was just their way of coping in an unusual environment. But then as he got older, the Orion women started fawning over him. They’d ‘faint’ in the middle of the hall just for him to catch them; they would kiss him whenever they felt like it. And the men didn’t like it.

“What can I help you with?” he said in fluent Orion. The women had started teaching it to him once he’d gotten over the squeaky voice phase of puberty.

“This is filth!” the guard yelled, waving his food platter under Jim’s nose. “Get me something different!”

Jim scoffed. “You see this here?” he asked, holding up his broom. “I’m the clean-up committee. You want different food, go talk to them.” He pointed over his shoulder to the food counter.

The guard growled, standing up to his full height. He towered over Jim—that was one of the things had hadn’t changed much over the years: he was still fairly short and scrawny for his age. The guard, a fully grown Orion male, was big and bulky in comparison.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” the guard growled. He spat in Jim’s face. 

He took a deep breath in. He should’ve been used to it, after seven years. Wiping the spit from his face, he glared at the guard.

“Do I? I’m not getting you any food,” he said, and stomped away, whispering under his breath, “Pig.”

There was a large crash, and when Jim turned around, there was a hand at his neck. He was slammed into the column not far from where he was, and oh god he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t get any air he grabbed at the guard’s hand but it was too big, the guard was too strong—

“I’ll teach you to talk back to me, you human filth!” The guard spat.

Jim struggled and struggled but it did nothing to help he couldn’t breathe he could feel his eyes watering his brain couldn’t function he needed air but oh god the guard just kept on squeezing and he couldn’t do anything and—

“P’TUP!”

And then he was on the ground, gasping for breath. He looked up to find who else but Devia staring down at him, the guard a few steps away. She held out a hand and he grabbed it. He was quickly brought to his feet; he was still gasping for as much air as his lungs could handle. 

“Are you alright?” she whispered to him in English.

“Yeah,” he gasped.

“You,” Devia growled, pointing at the guard who had nearly strangled him. “Go! I will deal with you later….”

The guard stomped away, grumbling under his breath. Jim looked out of the corner of his eyes, trying to ignore all of the Orions staring at them. He squirmed under their scrutiny. He didn’t mess up, not any more. This was the first slip-up in years. Hopefully they’d be lenient towards him…

“Jim,” Devia growled, exasperated.

“What?” he asked, holding up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t do anything!”

Devia growled again—that had been her thing for a while: growl at the people who upset her—and pulled him along until they were out of the mess hall. The metal floors underneath his feet reverberated with each step he took; him and his clunky boots. Devia’s bare feet only lightly padded along the floor, but he could tell she was upset.

They stopped right outside his cell. He frowned.

“What are we doing here?” he asked, looking at his cell. “I’m still on duty for the next four hours.”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” Devia said with a sigh. “Jim, why did you decide to stir up trouble now?” She put her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault! And what do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”

Devia looked left to right, checking if the halls were clear. She leaned closer, too close into his personal space if he was being honest. But with the Orion women practically crawling into his lap every ten minutes, he had gotten used to it. Especially from Devia. She was pretty much the boss running things. It helped to have the leader as your ‘friend’.

“Jim, I have convinced the next commentator to allow you to be put up for auction again.”

He sucked in a breath, his heart beating faster than usual. No, not again. He was not going up on that stage again. Last time, he had broken two ribs and at least one bone in every guard who had tried to subdue him. The stage meant giving away his life. In the slave ship, he was not just a slave. He was an employee—he had been starting to even get along with some of the Orions! He couldn’t leave.

Seeing his disgruntled face, Devia put her hands on either one of his shoulders. “Jim, you have to go. I cannot sit here, day after day, and think about all you’ve been through! You are not meant to be here! You are meant to be on a planet, doing something!”

“I’m a slave, Devia,” he grumbled, looking away from her. “There’s never going to be anything better for me.”

Taking one hand off of his shoulder, she roughly grabbed his chin and turned it back to her. “Jim,” she said, her eyes dark and dangerous. “You don’t realize why I’m doing this now. Jim…slaves are being let loose. There are more and more customers coming to the auctions to buy and then set the slaves free! Do you realize what the chances are that you are going to be set free if you’re bought!?”

“Extremely slim?” he growled.

She hesitated for a second, then let out a deep breath. “They’re higher than you think.”

Jim switched his weight between his feet for a moment. “Alright,” he finally says. “I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooohkay i think this chapter turned out a lot better than the one before it. Although young Jim is really hard to write, since all we got in the movie was him throwing himself off into a ravine??? I'm sorry if I was kind of boring :/ the next chapter is where things get interesting, so hang in there!


	3. The Black Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock goes to the Black Market, and picks up something....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...okay i'm never written in Spock's pov ever again. Or at least, I'm going to do it as few times as possible, because i'm terrible at it. And btw, this fanfic is NOT BETA-ED. but hey, i'm always open for betas????

Click.

The door slide closed behind him. He stepped forward, looking around at the new surroundings. Merchants and customers crowded the space station, the giant dome surrounding them all creating echoes. He slung his bag over his shoulder and started forward.

His Vulcan looks gained more attention than he deemed was average. Of course, they had a perfect logical reason for staring. Vulcans did not visit these kinds of space stations. Orions were the usual guests, along with Andorian, Gorn, Tellarites, and other species from around the galaxy. The space station he was currently in was used for black market purposes—A Vulcan had no right being there.

Still he walked. His bag slung over his shoulder, Spock took no attention to the many customers and merchants that stared at him. He kept his eyes straight, towards his destination. Not that he had actually chosen a destination.

“HEY SIR WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME ANDORIAN KRUPLICO FRUITS?” screamed an abnormally loud Andorian merchant.  
He stepped back to avoid colliding with the man. The merchant held a large, pulsating purple fruit in his hand, shoving it towards Spock’s face.

“THEY’RE NICE AND FRESH.”

Spock slid out of the way. “No, thank you,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the merchant. He had no idea black market merchants could be so…enthusiastic. 

“WELL COME BACK IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND.”

He walked out of the way, not turning around to see where the merchant had run off to. Spock had known he would run into some strange types of individuals in the black market, but already it was surprising him. 

Suddenly he felt some thump in his bag. Raising an eyebrow to himself, he turned his bag around to find, in the front pocket, the Andorian Kruplico fruit. He let out a sigh—the only show of displeasement he would allowed himself—and ignored the fruit. He could deal with it later.

Taking a step forward, he stopped suddenly in his tracks, his ears picking up something not far off.

“And here we have number 29109! A strong, female Gorn! She is lovely, isn’t she, people? Strong, hard working and dependable! Warning: she has a mean bite! Bidding start at 600 credits! Do I hear 600 credits?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. Slave trading, no doubt. Turning his body towards the source of the voice, he found an abnormally large crowd circled around a stand. Aliens of all species were lined up, coming from inside the slave ship, waiting to be auctioned off. Spock stepped towards the proceedings, fascinated by what he saw. He knew Slave Auctions were quite popular, but he did not know they could be this popular. Perhaps this one was particularly special.

He began to walk towards the crowd of people, taking a stand behind a smaller Tellarite man. The commentator called out another number, and this time an Orion woman stepped up. The crowd instantly perked up. Spock raised an eyebrow. He did not think that Orions auctioned off their own kind. Apparently he had been mistaken.

“And this is number 19278! A lovely Orion woman! She is seductive, sexy, and brilliant! Not only renowned for her good lucks, she is a computer whiz! Warning: she can beat you at any game you put forward! Price starting at 2000 credits!”

The bidding began, with eager bidders shouting out higher and higher numbers until it grew so large that only one person remained. He was not surprised to find that the highest bidder was a Gorn, but was surprised to find that the second highest bidder was, in fact, an Orion. An Orion Slave Trader, one from that party no doubt. He raised an eyebrow. Fascinating. Use one of their own Orion to, in the words of a human he had met a few months ago, ‘bump up’ the bid. He found himself nodding in appreciation.

“And can we have number 69281!”

The individual that stepped up onto the stage was not one that he was expecting. It was a human. A human male, perhaps a few earth cycles younger than himself. The human was bare-chested, showing the abnormal amount of lacerations on his person. The human looked downwards, as if frightened to find what he would find if he looked up. Spock found himself entranced by this male. Humans were not often slaves—the Federation was particularly strict about the buying and selling of humans. How had this one come into their possession?

“He is a human male—one of the few that resides in his sector! He is strong and intelligent, and definitely knows his way around being a slave! This particular one has been a personal slave to this Orion slave ship for seven whole years!”

A murmur spread throughout the crowd. Spock himself arched an eyebrow. Seven years aboard a slave ship? That was unheard of. Although, judging by the amount of lacerations on his chest, perhaps there had been a reason. The male had not fared well with past customers, obviously.

The human looked up, and Spock found himself an answer. A metaphorical fire burned in the human’s brilliant blue eyes, and it seemed to not only startle himself, but the rest of the crowd as well. 

“Warning: this human is particularly vicious! He might be a danger to your other slaves!”

And with those words, the entire crowd seemed to emit displeasure. The male turned around to glare at the commentator, who in turn smiled, flashing a set of unnaturally rotten teeth. The male jolted for a second, then looked down at the shackles that Spock hadn’t noticed was wearing. No other slave had worn shackles….He suppose what made the male jolt was an electrical current running through it. Spock raised both eyebrows. This human had obviously caused much trouble to the Orions.

“His bidding price is 700 credits!”

No one raised their hand. On stage, the male did not seem particularly surprised. He huffed, and settled into one hip. Almost as if he had been expecting it. 

Spock found himself raising his hand. 

“You sir, in the back! Your bid is 700 credits?”

All eyes turned towards him. The slave’s eyes even turned, and Spock found himself under the scrutiny of a pair of shockingly blue eyes. He blinked once, and nodded. 

“Any other bids?”

Tentatively, another hand was raised. An Orion. Spock found himself frowning, although it was completely illogical action.  
“725 credits,” the Orion said tentatively.

“725 credits! Sir in the back, do you have a counter-bid?”

Spock was being illogical and foolish, if he was being completely honest with himself. He had no need for a slave—he did not believe that any individual should be subjected to slavery. Why he was bidding for a slave was beyond him. It was as if, in the back of his mind, he had already decided he was going to let the slave free. That seemed logical to him, and so he latched onto it as his reason for such stupid actions.

“730,” he said, just loud enough for the commentator to hear him.

“740,” the Orion rebounded quickly.

“750.”

“760.”

“800.”

“850.”

“900.”

“1500 credits.” 

The number had come out of his mouth before he had any chance to stop himself. The crowd waited with bated breath for the Orion to rebound with a higher number, but alas, he did not. The Orion stepped back, shaking his head. 

Spock did not hear the commentator announcing him as the owner for the human, as he was already lost in his own thoughts. He had just bought a slave. The idea baffled Spock, but he found himself taking it in stride. The Orion guards unshackled the male, bringing him around the crowd. Once up close, Spock openly stared at the male. He was glaring at Spock like he was the one thing he hated most of all. Spock couldn’t fathom why.

“Here you go,” the Orion man said in rough Standard, shoving the male at him.

Spock was not expecting the male to make contact with him, but when he did, he was overcome with thoughts of hate, of don’t touch me you pervert bastard fucker let me go back to Devia leave me I don’t need your pity I’m a free man I’m a slave don’t touch me I don’t want to be here, leave me to die. Spock stumbled backwards, startled by the male’s deep hatred. The Orion guards left. 

“My name is Spock,” he said in greeting, holding his hands up in the Vulcan salute. 

The man just grumbled and refused to look at Spock. He tilted his head.

“Do you have a name?” 

The male murmured something, but Spock, even with his superior hearing, was not able to discern what it was that was said.  
“Repeat what you have spoken, I could not hear.”

“Jim.”

Spock nodded his head slightly. “Jim. If you would?” he held out his hand to gesture towards the direction they were going to be headed in.

The male, Jim, he reminded himself, scoffed. “You must be an idiot if you think I’m going with you,” he seethed under his breath.  
He was momentarily taken back by the pure rage that came from the man, but then thought back to the thoughts that had filtered through when they had made contact, and was no longer surprised. It was a purely natural reaction. Spock had not divulged his true plan for the man yet.

“You mistake me, Jim. I do not intend to make use of your services.”

Jim’s head snapped up, and Spock was suddenly staring into those blue eyes again. Then Jim narrowed his eyes, suspicious of Spock’s words. “What do you mean?” he hissed.

“I bid on you for the purpose of setting you free. Now, if you will come with me?”

Spock walked away without knowing whether Jim would follow. He didn’t need to know. He knew the man would follow. And after a few moments, he heard boots stomping after him. He didn’t allow himself an outward smile, but inwardly he was smirking. 

A few meters from his ship, he suddenly felt a hand on his deltoid, and suddenly he was spun around to meet Jim’s gaze.  
“Why the hell are you doing this?” Jim spat.

Spock blinked. “Clarify.”

“Well…why are you doing…’this’?” Jim waved his hands around wildly, not clarifying his question in the slightest. “Why did you buy me? Why did you all of a sudden set me free? What are you, one of those rich guys that walk around slave auctions to buy and set slaves free? Because I don’t need your pity.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You believe my actions were an act of pity. They were not. The commentator said that you had been on that ship for seven years. Humans, in my experience, do not fare well under slavery. It was only logical to free you.”

Jim scoffed, and crossed his arms defensively over his chest. “‘Logical’? Man, there is something wrong with you.”

“I agree to disagree. I am in perfect condition.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Egotistical, are you?” Before he had a chance to rebut, Jim continued. “Alright, so you’ve bought me, now what?”

He made his way towards his ship, with Jim following. “We will make our way to the nearest Federation space station. There, you will be released.” He stopped and looked back at Jim. “Unless you would rather wander around the Black Market, intending to hitchhike?”

Jim’s eyes widened. “Oh fuck no.”

“You are more logical than I believed you to be, Jim.”

The human smiled, and Spock only thought of it then—it had probably been one of the very few compliments he had ever gotten. Spock made a mental note to give the human more of these compliments; he knew that to develop properly, humans needed some kind of reassurance or encouragement that they were doing things properly. Jim had no doubt been stunted in his development, if he had been become a slave at a young age. So, it was now up to Spock to help along his development, no matter how long they remained in each other’s presence.

Spock tapped in his key code, the door opened with a _swoosh _. He held out his arm, gesturing for Jim to go in before him.  
The gasp that came from the human conveyed his surprise. As they both walked into the space ship, Jim looked fascinated by all that decorated the ship.__

__There were books._ _

__Real, old-fashioned books, in every language from every planet in the Federation. They were paper, or some form of paper, books, something that was hard to procure but Spock had gone through great lengths to buy, steal, or barter for._ _

__“This is amazing…,” Jim breathed, running his hands over the books. He spun around, the wonder obvious in his eyes. “Where did you get all of these?”_ _

__Spock walked over to the cockpit, starting up the ship. “I have been…collecting them for quite a while. They are, as you might say…my hobby.”_ _

__Jim scoffed, sitting in one of the few seats that was not smothered in books. “It’s a nice ship,” he said, patting the chair fondly.  
“You are a great judge of ships, then?” Spock said, raising an eyebrow._ _

__“Eh, not really. But going into the different space ports, sometimes I got to talk to the different merchants about their ships and such. I got to know which were good and which were absolute shit.” Spock’s other eyebrow rose to meet the first. “This one’s not bad.”_ _

__“Well I extend thanks on behalf of my ship.”_ _

__He watched as a smile lit up Jim’s face. He tilted his head. Fascinating. Not minutes ago the human had been completely unwilling to even look at him, and now he was expressing emotions of friendliness. He was quick to judge, it seemed, but also just as quick to change his mind._ _

__“So,” Jim said, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Spock resisted the urge to flinch. “Do you have any food to eat? I’m starved.”_ _

__“I do have a replicator, if that is what you desire.”_ _

__Jim’s eyes widened. “A _replicator _? Really?”___ _

____“Vulcans do not lie.”_ _ _ _

____The human rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But seriously, replicator’s are hard to come by!” Jim suddenly put his feet on the ground, leaning forward in his chair curiously._ _ _ _

____“You are mistaken. Replicators are fairly easy to procure. Perhaps it is hard to ‘come by’ in the black market, but in the Federation, they are quite standard.”_ _ _ _

____Jim pursed his lips and sat back. “Well, great. And here I’ve been lead to believe they were a novelty.”  
“Indeed.”_ _ _ _

____Spock returned to his tasks, sitting in the pilot’s seat. As he disembarked from the station he could hear Jim in the back, rummaging in what sounded like his books. He set in a course for the nearest Federation base, and allowed himself to relax in his seat. According to the computers, it would take six days to arrive. He had better make his ‘guest’ comfortable…._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that little pulsating fruit in the beginning is going to serve a point later. just thought I'd tell you that it's NOT COMPLETELY USELESS. JUST WAIT. (don't forget...i'm always willing to take on a beta...)


	4. This Ship Isn't Big Enough For The Two Of Us

Jim was out. He was _out_. He was in a spaceship that did not belong to any slave traders, and it was filled with books and was with someone that wasn’t Orion. Okay, sure, the guy was Vulcan, but that was better than Orion any day. He sat back in the books, looking around. It was only a few hours into the trip and he already felt like he belonged there. Not…that he was going to stay. He didn’t know the guy, he was just…hitchhiking, and that’s all he was doing. 

“You require new clothing.”

The voice snapped Jim out of his trance. He looked over at the Vulcan—who was extremely hot, although he hated to admit it—blinking a few times. Jim looked down at his clothes. They were just simple slave clothing—black pants. He hadn’t even remembered he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked up at the Vulcan and smirked.

“What, does my lack of clothing… _distract_ you?”

The Vulcan—his name was Spock, right?—raised an eyebrow. “I do not get distracted from my job because of the amount of cloth an individual might be wearing,” he said monotonely.

Jim held his hands up surrender. “Alright, you win. So…new clothing?”

Spock passed by him, opened up a cupboard and pulled out a pair of pants and a dark, form-fitting shirt. Walking back over to Jim, he handed the clothing to him. “These should be suitable,” he said, but at that moment Jim could almost see him scrunching his nose up. “However, I do request that you clean yourself before putting these on.”

“Are you telling me I smell bad?” Jim asked, eyes narrowed. He eyed the Vulcan warily, then smelled his shoulder. “Oookay yeah I do. You have a shower or something?”

Spock stood up to full height and gestured to the small hallway to the right of Jim. He got up, clutching the clothes, and made his way back, fully aware that the Vulcan was watching him.

He flipped on the light and whistled. It was all…glistening and white. Definitely not like anything they had in the Traders’ ship. Stepping inside, he put the clothes on the edge of the sink and looked around. There was a small shower in the corner, and next to that a toilet, and then the sink on the opposite wall. Everything looked like it had never been used before. Stepping closer to the shower, he saw a knob on the shower wall. _Sonic or Water_. His eyes widened.

“You have a _water_ shower?” he shouted, peeking his head out of the door and down the hall.

From the pilot’s seat he saw Spock turn around and raise an eyebrow. “It does have that option.”

“Can I?” he asked, not caring he sounded like an over-excited five year old.

“If you must.”

He silently fist-pumped the air and spun around. Oh god, he hadn’t had a water shower since…oh, since he was on Earth. The Traders’ ship had sonic showers that you used for ten seconds and were roughly pushed out of once you were done by the Orion guards. But a water shower. And he could use it for as long as he wanted…well, at least, until the water ran out. 

Closing the door, he turned on the water and began to strip. Not that there was much to get off of his body. Silently he looked into the mirror. Compared to the whiteness of the bathroom, he stood out like a sore thumb. A few of the more recent lashes were fading, but every one of them was visible. His body was covered in dirt and grime. He felt like a speck of dirt in the middle of the Starfleet flagship. Squirming slightly in front of his own reflection, he spun around and practically threw himself into the shower.

Which was a terrible idea.

The scalding water instantly burned on his skin. Jim rapidly jumped out of the blast, into the corner of the shower, screaming slightly (It was manly as fuck too). Holy _shit_. Turning the knob to a cooler temperature, he blew on his arms, trying to cool them down.

“Jim?” said a voice from the other side of the door. “Do you require assistance?”

Oh, did he hear a bit of _mocking_ in that voice, oh he thought he did. Rolling his eyes, he made an ugly face at the door. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he shouted. 

There was silence, and Jim figured the Vulcan went back to his chair. Tentatively holding his hand out, he figured the water was at a good temperature and stepped beneath it. What greeted him was fucking _heavenly_. Sighing, he let the water wash over his back, and down his sides. It stung some of the newer lashes, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care because it felt too damn good. He ran his hands through his hair, slicking it back.

He was free.

Jim had known he was free for a couple hours now, but it only hit him then that he was free. He was no longer a slave. He was a free human, he could go back home, he could build a proper life for himself this time, he could learn he could become somewhere oh fuck was he crying? 

The tears had been indiscernible from the water until then, but then went he lifted his hands to his eyes, he found himself actually crying. He laughed. He was crying from _relief_. Wiping the tears away, he found that he could not keep them back anymore.

Falling to the floor, he sobbed. After so many years of being thrown around, beaten and ridiculed, he was free. He was a free man and this Vulcan had done it and holy shit he could go back home. The tears didn’t stop pouring, and he sobbed audibly, not caring if Spock heard because he was _free_.

When the tears finally ceased, he took deep breaths to try and regulate himself. He couldn’t come out of the bathroom looking like an emotional mess, that was sure. Spock probably was already thinking he was a bundle of emotions already; it wouldn’t help their situation if he thought Jim had lost it. Getting up off the floor, he found a bar of soap and actually began to clean himself. When was the last time he had been clean? Probably never, an unhelpful voice said in the back of his head. Even when he had been a kid he had always liked the dirt and the mud. He had been the kind of kid who had rolled around in it, and then gone home to be shouted at. Jim took a shaky breath in. He was going home. Not directly, but…he was getting closer.

Turning off the shower, he dried himself off and got into the new clothes. He noted the softness; the way they slid over his skin like water. The slave clothes had always been scratchy and uncomfortable. These definitely weren’t.

Jim stepped out, the towel around his neck. Steam followed him and dispersed into the air in the ship. He took his seat back, putting his bare feet on the coffee table again.

“Thanks for that,” he said. Better start putting those good ‘social skills’ to use, Kirk, he thought to himself. People weren’t going to put up with his slave attitude anymore, not now that he was free. 

“You do not need to thank me. I simply thought you would rather be hygienic when we docked at the space station.”

The Vulcan clicked a few buttons and spun around in his seat so he was facing Jim.

“Well…yeah, but we’re arriving in what, three days? I could’ve taken a shower there.”

Jim watched as Spock narrowed his eyes by a small fraction. “I do have to admit, it was for my benefit as well. My senses are stronger than yours, Jim, and the constant smell of Orion food and hay would not have been a pleasant smell to endure for three days.”

He couldn’t help but smile. Was this a thing with all Vulcans, or just him? Because if it was all of them, he could definitely get used to being in a Vulcan’s presence more often. They were, and unintentionally so, hilarious.

Sitting back in the chair, he intertwined his fingers behind his head. “So…since we’re going to be stuck pretty much in the same room as each other for three days, how about we get to know each other?” Jim asked.

The Vulcan raised his eyebrow (that man had a problem with that). “And what would you suggest to do so?”

“Well questions are always a good start. So…your name is Spock, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Alright, just making sure. You said it once and I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course. And it is no consequence to me whether you retain knowledge of my name or not. However, I will ask you to remember that I am here to help you…not harm you.”

Jim couldn’t help but smile, then proceeded to put his hand on his chest, pouting at the Vulcan dramatically. “Why Mr. Spock, I’m insulted you think so lowly of my memory skills!”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. But I do not know much about you, as we have only met hours ago, so it would do well if you would pardon my mistake.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You’re so verbose….”

“And you, Jim, are quite intelligent, as demonstrated by your use of language, for a slave.”

Jim frowned.

“Pardon me—ex-slave.”

He loosened up a little bit. “You know, this really wasn’t what I had in mind when I said we should get to know each other better,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

Spock tilted his head. “Then what did you have in mind?”

Jim threw his hands up over his head. “I-I don’t know, give me a break I just got freed, what—three hours ago??”

“You are upset.”

Rolling his eyes, he crossed his arms and turned away from Spock. “No, I’m not. I just…I’m tired. You know what…can I sleep somewhere?”

“Next to the bathroom there is a bedroom. You can rest there,” Spock said. As Jim got up he could feel the man’s gaze on him, but was afraid to turn to face him. Jim had been around Vulcans before. He could handle his emotions around them. But whenever Spock looked at him…it just twisted his innards. It wasn’t that he felt uncomfortable around him, but…there was just something weird. Maybe it was because they were sharing such small quarters.

“Alright, thanks,” he said, and trudged off to the bedroom.

That room was just as filled with books as the others. Pushing some of the books off the bed, he climbed in. It was fluffy and comfortable, but…too comfortable. Jim tossed and turned, and tossed and turned, but no position was better than the last. He lay on his stomach and buried his face into the pillow. Maybe he would just suffocate himself there. That’d be an interesting way to go. Death by pillow suffocation. 

_What about Earth_? He flipped over to his back and stared at the ceiling. Did anyone care when he had been kidnapped? Did any of his school friends miss him, wonder where he had gone? Had the authorities gone looking for him? Jim closed his eyes. He would have to stay alive to find out, wouldn’t he?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jim groaned. “No, no, no,” he said, his words muffled by him stuffing his face into the pillow.

Light was shining on him from some indeterminable source, and oh god he did not want that to be there. He had only finally fallen asleep…he didn’t even know. Maybe an hour ago? No matter of the time had been asleep, all he wanted to do was get back to it. 

“Based on what I know of human sleeping patterns,” came Spock’s voice, “This should have been more than sufficient time for you to recuperate. Have I calculated wrong?”

“How am I supposed to know?” he grumbled, flipping the pillow so it was over his head. “What time is it?”

“Measured by which system?”

He blinked from under the pillow. Right. The Trader’s ship had always measured time by an Orion day, but Vulcans didn’t measure time the same. “Uh…I don’t know, standard?” 

“Then it is oh nineteen hundred. You have been asleep for 12 standard hours.”

Jim instantly flipped around and sat up, staring at the Vulcan that stood in the doorway. “ _12 hours_?” he repeated incredulously.  
“That is what I said.” Spock raised his eyebrow. “Is there something wrong?”

He didn’t say anything, opting to flop back on the bed. 12 hours. He hadn’t slept that long in years. Even Frank hadn’t let him sleep in that late. 

“Jim?”

He looked down the bridge of his nose to see Spock looking at him with interest. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said the Vulcan looked _worried_. But Vulcans didn’t worry, because worrying was an emotion. Jim couldn’t help but smile.  
“Careful there, you’re looking worried.”

Spock instantly straightened, looking as stiff as he did when Jim first met him. He placed his hands at the small of his back. “I see you are well. I will leave now.”

He spun around and stomped away. 

Jim sighed. “… _Vulcans_ ,” he whispered under his breath before rushing after him.

“Hey, hey I didn’t mean it,” he said, carefully keeping his distance from Spock. “I didn’t know you’d get all bitchy about it!”

Spock turned on his heels, and Jim froze in his tracks to prevent running into him. “I assure you, I am not being… ‘bitchy’ about anything. It would be best if you chose not to insult me in the future.”

But Jim hadn’t really heard the last part of his comments. “You said ‘bitchy’,” he said with a laugh.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I was simply using your vernacular.”

“Yeah, I know, but you said _bitchy_. I’ve never heard a Vulcan swear!”

“And you never shall again.”

He couldn’t help but smile as Spock stomped off towards the pilot’s chair. All traces of fatigue gone, he flopped down into his chair (since when had it become _his_ chair??). “What is up with Vulcans and your weird lack of emotion?” he said, picking up a book and twirling it in his hand. Huh, Gulliver’s Travels. Nice copy. “And your guys’ hatred of any human who has ‘em?”  
Spock turned in the chair. “Hatred is an emotion. We do not ‘hate’ any species.”

Jim threw back the Vulcan’s trademark raised eyebrow at him. “Uh-huh. Then why are you so adverse to emotions?”

He just barely caught the appearance of a frown on Spock’s face before it disappeared. “My race was very violent before we were taught logic. We did not wish to repeat the many wars that we once fought. By purging emotions, we purged the hatred that began our wars in the first place.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you also purge other stuff? Like happiness, and love? Stuff like that?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You are applying human beliefs to a non-human race, Jim. It would be wise if you did not do so in the future. It might… ‘upset’ someone.”

He spun back to face the screen, which gave Jim the perfect opportunity to stick his tongue out at his back. Jim slunk into the chair even farther. This guy just couldn’t be talked to! Every time Jim brought something up, the guy made it into an argument! Note to self: stay away from topics such as humanity, humanity, and…oh, humanity. Jim frowned. He was going to go back to humanity, couldn’t he be allowed to talk about it? 

“So how long do we have until we dock?” he asked, just to get his mind off of something other than being pissed off with Spock.

“59.7 hours.”

He whistled. “Very precise.”

“I am Vulcan,” he said in response.

And that’s what snapped him. “Will you just shut up for one _second_ about you being Vulcan?”

Spock tried to intercept, but _ooooh_ no, Jim wasn’t having any of that.

“Like..goddammit, I try to talk about feelings: ‘oh no, Vulcans don’t have feelings!’ I say you’re precise: ‘oh, of course I’m precise, I’m motherfucking Vulcan'!” 

“You are twisting my words around, Jim, I have not—“

“Maybe not in those exact words, but yeah ,that’s what you’ve been saying! I’m just trying to have a simple conversation with you since, oh, I don’t know, we’re stuck together for three days—“

“59.7 hours is not—“

“ _I DON’T CARE_!”

Jim’s words echoed throughout the small ship. Breathing deeply, he stared at the Vulcan with narrowed eyes, his hands clenched by his side. Spock looked at him evenly, not even fazed by his shouting. And suddenly it was if the Vulcan’s calm demeanor had seeped through him—he felt exhausted again, and dropped down to his chair, his knees not being able to hold his weight.  
“Sorry,” he murmured, burying his head into his hands.

“Apologies are not needed. Only 15 hours ago you were freed from being a slave. The emotional build-up has put a strain on your ability to make logical decisions.”

“Oh don’t talk about my emotions like you know what it feels like,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his palm.

“You believe Vulcans have no emotions. That is not true. Vulcans feel more deeply than even humans—we simply choose to repress them. Humans did not evolve in such a fashion so that repressing them would be healthy for the species. I realize this, and as you are human, I apply the logic to you.” 

He looked over at Spock to find him facing Jim. Spock raised an eyebrow, almost to ask ‘ _are you done having an emotional breakdown_?’. Jim gave him a small smile. 

“Sorry,” he said again. 

This time Spock only nodded. “Your apologies have been accepted.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “You can’t just say ‘it’s okay’?” he asked, and couldn’t help but smirk a little.

Spock blinked. “That would be illogical.”

He rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long 59.7 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo, arguing spock and kirk. For some reason I like that. And I like writing it. Again, looking for a beta reader??? Next chapter: guess who's docking at a space station???


	5. This Little Thing Called A Space Port

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, chapter 5! I would like to thank 'sticktofashion' for being my beta, she's doing a fantastic job!

“Jim.

“Jim.

“Jim, you must wake up. We have arrived.”

The words were far away; far away and unwanted. He turned in the bed, mumbling something incoherent. The silence had become his best friend, and he wasn’t going to be torn from it again. Never again. He was surrounded by words and silence, and no goddamn voice was going to drag him away from them.

“We have arrived at the space port, Jim.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he was greeted with the sight of a pillow smashed into his face. They had arrived? Space port? It took a few moments for the words to connect to meanings, but when they did, his eyes widened.

“Really?” he asked, flipping himself around to face Spock.

Two dark eyes too close for comfort faced him, but only for a split second. Spock sharply pulled away, standing rod-straight. He didn’t show any signs of discomfort on his face, but his ears were tinted green at the tips. Jim smirked as he pulled the blankets away.

“Indeed,” Spock said stiffly. “I will wait for you to join me when you are…decent.”

He looked down at himself—over the last few days he’d been slowly getting more comfortable in the ship, and as it turned out, it was a lot easier to sleep with fewer clothes on. With the blanket gone, Spock was given a lovely view of Jim’s mostly naked body, only covered by a pair of small shorts. Spock turned stiffly away and marched out of the room, leaving him with his thoughts.   
Jim couldn’t help but smirk. He’d probably freaked him out again (it had been becoming a regular occurrence). He’d have to remember to do that more oft—fuck. His smirk turned into a frown. It was his last day on the ship, they had docked. Jim would probably be shooting towards Earth by that evening. Spock would be who-knows-where and he’d never see him again. A shiver ran up his back. He’d actually gotten kind of close to the Vulcan over the last three days. Probably the closest he’d had to a friend not connected to the Slave Trade in…oh, who knows how long. 

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, Jim waited a few moments before finally getting up.

Making sure to go as slowly as possible, Jim put on the black shirt and pants he’d been wearing for the last couple days, opting to carry his shoes with him. He looked around the room. Looked at the books, all haphazardly thrown across the room—Jim’s fault, mostly—in the bed, on the floor, stacked in the many bookshelves and everywhere else. Maybe he could ask Spock if he could take a few of them with him….

“Jim?”

Spock was standing in the doorway, on the verge of looking mildly amused. Jim snapped out of his trance, attempting to smirk at the Vulcan.

“Sorry. Spacing out for a second, there. Hey, can I take some of the books?”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock nodded. “If you so desire.”

“Awesome.”

He grabbed few books he hadn’t read yet, but then he spotted a book that had quickly become one of his favorites, and that too was added to the pile. But then one of the ones he had in his hands suddenly didn’t seem to interesting and he put it down, only to pick up two more books in its place.

“Uh….”

In his hands was a collection of about ten books, stacked in a way that he actually had trouble seeing over the top of them to look at Spock. He smiled sheepishly.

“Makes me wish I had bigger pockets,” he said, not sure what else to say.

Spock raised an eyebrow, and when he held out his hand, only then did Jim notice what he was holding. It was small, gray, drawstring bag.

“As you do not have any other clothes, it was logical to give you more. I believe there is room in here to fit some of the books.”  
Jim grinned and deftly reached for the bag. Their hands brushed lightly—predictably, Spock pulled back quickly, almost causing Jim to drop the books. He frowned. He knew Vulcans were touch-telepaths, but this guy was just plain human-phobic. Or maybe Jim-phobic. 

“Is it really alright to be taking these many books?” he asked as he stuffed a few of them in the bag. “I feel kinda bad taking all of these….”

“While I am reluctant to part with a few of them, I believe they will serve you better than they will me. And my selection is large enough that a few books will not matter.”

“Well, thanks then!” Jim slid the drawstrings onto either one of his shoulders and faced Spock. “So, um…are you going to hang out at the dock for a little bit, or are you just gonna book it once I’m out of here?” He couldn’t keep a smile off his face, but there was a part of him that was dearly wishing Spock would stick around for a bit.

“I am planning on restocking some of my supplies,” Spock said; they started out of the room, Jim slightly behind Spock. “Is there a reason for your inquiry?”

He didn’t say anything for a little bit, not trusting his mouth to say the right words. Once they reached the door, he believed he had found the right ones. “Well…I was wondering, you know, if you’re not sick of me already”—the door opened—“we could have dinner tonight? Like, you know, as a going away kind of thing!”

They both stepped outside, but Jim wasn’t looking at the spectacle before him—he was looking at Spock, eagerly awaiting a response. Spock hooked his arms behind his back, and appeared to be deep in thought. 

“That would be…acceptable,” he said finally. 

Jim let out a deep breath and smiled. “Awesome! So should we hang out at your place, or do you think this dock has— _holy shit_.”

His eyes had finally wandered over to the Space Dock. ‘Holy shit’ was right. The current section they were in was huge, larger than even the Black Market space docks. People—mostly humans—wandered around in Starfleet uniforms with slicked hair and clicking heels. No one gave them a passing glance, and no one was trying to sell them anything. It was clean and sparkling (Just like Spock’s bathroom, although it was a terrible comparison), with enormous windows that showed them a view of…oh god, was that a Starship? 

“Spock…?” he asked, his voice breathy and his eyes wide. He tugged on the Vulcan’s sleeve, trying to get his attention. “Is that a…?”

“Starship?” Spock finished for him, seeing where he was pointing. “Yes it is. The USS Farragut, I believe. Constitution class starship.”

“I’ve never seen a starship before…,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper.

“Then this must be quite an experience for you,” Spock said, raising his eyebrow.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was still gripping Spock’s sleeve until Spock deftly pulled on Jim’s own sleeve, causing him to jerk it away in surprise. “Oh…sorry,” he said sheepishly, trying not to look at Spock. Eager to forget his mistake, he looked around the space dock for something to amuse him with. “Hey, do you know if there’s a bar around here?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You are of drinking age?”

Well…okay, maybe he wasn’t. Well, he didn’t really know what the drinking age was for humans. But just in case he wasn’t, he nodded. “Of course!”

The Vulcan didn’t seem too convinced, but didn’t say anything in retaliation. “I believe there is one in the Entertainment District.”  
“Great! Uh…where is that?”

Spock directed him to where he needed to go, and so while he was off collecting his ‘stuff’, Jim made his way to a bar. It was odd, being in a place with so many federation officers. They were everywhere. And he meant everywhere. You could turn one degree and see at least ten in that given area. He supposed they were having shore leave, or something like that. Jim remembered a few things about Starfleet from his mother, and shore leave was something she always used to talk about. 

Jim stepped into the first darkly lit place he found, seeing drinks in people’s hands. Laughter filtered from the shop, and when he ducked his head under the curtain that separated the shop from the rest of the space dock, he was instantly bombarded with the smell of alcohol. It was fucking wonderful.

“Could I have a glass of Orion wine, please?” he asked, sitting down at the bar. He was squashed in a rock-like alien and a burly Starfleet officer. ‘Stuck in between a rock and a hard place’ indeed. 

The bartender, human, looked him up and down. “How old are you, kid?” 

He paled slightly, but hopefully it wouldn’t show in the dim lights. “How old do you need me to be?” he asked, winking at the guy. 

When in a tough situation, use your charm, Devia always told him. Maybe it could work there.

“Nice try, kid, but that’s not gonna work on me. How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, didn’t hear that. How old?”

“Twenty-one!” he said a bit louder.

The guy narrowed his eyes. “Oh, really? Is that what you said before?”

“He said nineteen.”

A sultry voice suddenly came up behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, a Andorian taking the place of the Starfleet officer. 

“Who asked you?” Jim growled.

“No one,” said the Andorian, smiling at him. “But that is what you said the first time, isn’t it? I do have a polygraph scanner with me, if you would like for the truth to be revealed.”

He glared at the man. Who the hell was this guy?! All he was trying to do was get a drink—just one, that’s all! 

“Alright, fine,” he said, turning back to the bartender. “I’m nineteen! So can I get a drink or what?”

The bartender tapped a sign above him, and when Jim looked up, he saw that the sign read ‘DON’T SERVE ALCOHOL TO INDIVIDUALS UNDER 21’ in several languages. Rolling his eyes, he dropped his head to the bar counter, groaning. 

“Oh, come on, give me a break! I just want a drink, alright?” He said, raising his head. 

“Sorry, kid. The rules are the rules,” the bartender said, smirking slightly.

Sliding off the stool, he started to stomp away, not wanting to look back, fearing the Andorian was giving him a smug look. He spotted rooms off the side of the bar—small rooms, filled with pillows and incense (or cigarette smoke) and closed off with curtains. It gave him an idea.

Rushing back to the ship, he found Spock carrying a box into the ship.

“Hey, hey, Spock!” he called, rushing up to the Vulcan.

Spock looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression you were in search of intoxicants.”

“Well, I was, but, well, funny story, apparently I’m too young to buy anything!”

Putting down the box into the ship, Spock turned around to yet again raise an eyebrow. “You told me you were of age.”

“Well, um…apparently not?”

“How old are you?”

“…19 earth years, I think.”

Spock nodded, sitting in one of his chairs. He looked up at Jim with a questioning gaze. “You are three years younger than I.”

“So you can drink!”

Spock narrowed his eyes. “If I so desired, I could. However, intoxications do not affect me.”

“Well….” Jim slid up to Spock’s chair, trying his best to suavely slide onto the armrest. “You could buy something, and then just give it to me!” 

“And why would I be inclined to do that?”

“Uh…because I’m asking nicely?”

Jim was almost on the point of batting his eyelashes. He wanted some beer like he needed water, and boy, if batting his eyelashes was going to get him it, he would be willing to drop all semblance of masculinity. 

“This is acceptable.”

He almost punched the air in his excitement, but didn’t want to freak Spock out again with his ‘emotions’ so just smiled as broadly as he could. Following Spock out of the ship, he led the Vulcan to the bar, deciding to wait outside.

“Oh, and hey, could you get me one of those little rooms? As like, a going away present?” Jim was pushing his luck and he knew it, but hey, why not? It was probably going to be the last pleasure he was going to get for a long, long time.

“If you insist.”

And that was how he ended up sitting inside a very fluffy red room, a drink his hand and a pillow underneath every part of his body. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spock set down the last box and stepped back. His ship had been crowded before, but with all of the new supplies, it was filled to the brim. Every supply was necessary, of course. It was illogical to purchase items that could not be of use. It was just that he had not visited a legal space dock in a long period of time. Repairs were needed on the ship, and with his limited credits, only so much could be done by the professionals. It was only logical that Spock repair the ship, both interior and exterior, himself.   
And because of his logical reasoning, the ship was filled to the brim. He could not part with any of the books—a pesky human attachment that he didn’t care to purge—and yet every supply was necessary. Spock stepped out of his ship, closing the doors. He could deal with all of that later. However, the disappearance of Jim did have to be dealt with.

Jim had gone into the bar six hours and forty-nine minutes previously, and Spock had not seen him since. It was nearing the time usually reserved for dinner, and after that they were scheduled to meet with Jim’s transportation to Earth. Yet Jim was still in the bar.

Which lead to him searching the space dock. He found the establishment in precisely 4.6 minutes, ducking under the curtains and into the smoke filled room. He ignored the stench and entered the room he knew Jim to be in, and was greeted with the stretched-out, limp figure of an intoxicated male.

“Spock!” Jim said loudly, his voice slurry. He sat up among the pillows, one hand holding a bottle and the other holding what he believed to be a ‘martini glass’. “Glad you could make it!” He hiccupped. “Want some?” Jim held out the bottle, his arm wobbling. It ended up being brought back to his chest, his arm not having the strength to keep it up there.

“No, I do not. Jim, have you forgotten our plans?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jim frowned. “Uh…what plans?”

“You requested that we have dinner, as a, ‘going away kind of thing’.” Spock stepped over several of the pillows, seating himself in the only chair that resided in the room. 

“Oh, oh, right! Sorry about that!” He hiccupped again. “We can have it right now! Beer is a great dinner!” He giggled. Spock raised an eyebrow, almost allowing himself to be surprised at the sound that had come out of Jim’s mouth. 

“Your intoxicants are not a healthy substitute for a meal, Jim. I insist you come with me back to the ship.”

“But whyyyy?” Jim whined. 

He raised an eyebrow. “You are intoxicated, Jim, and are not making logical decisions. Come back with me to the ship. You must rest now.”

Jim pouted, putting the martini glass down onto the floor to allow him to cross his arms. “No.”

“Jim.”

“No!”

“Jim.”

“Nooooo.”

“ _Jim ___.”

_His harsh tone seemed to persuade him. “Alright, fine,” Jim said, still pouting. He slowly sat up, shivering slightly. Spock raised an eyebrow. The temperature was quite high; it felt comfortable for even him. It did not make any sense for Jim to be shivering. He surmised that it was the effect of the alcohol._

_Jim slowly got to his feet, but once on them, he was quickly off of them. He giggled when he found himself on the floor again. “Spoooock, could you help me up?” Jim asked, pouting his lips._

_Spock hesitated. Such contact would inadvertently bring him in close quarters with Jim’s thoughts. He, like all Vulcans, did not care to touch others. Certainly not people they had known for three earth days. But he did not see any other choice. It was the only way to get Jim back to the ship, it seemed._

_“If I must,” he said simply, bending down to Jim._

_He held up his mental shields even higher than he usually did, careful to make sure that Jim’s thoughts did not seep into his head. Spock did not want to invade the privacy of a man who would surely not wish his thoughts to be seen. And intoxicated thoughts often dimmed his own senses. He used this as a basis for constructing his shields._

_“You know, Spock…,” Jim slurred as Spock began to carry him out of the room. “You’re a really cool guy, you know that?”_

_“I disagree. My body temperature is, in fact, higher than yours.”_

_Jim laughed. “And you’re funny!”_

_Spock tried not to frown. Vulcans were not ‘funny’._

_As he was pulling Jim around his shoulder even tighter, he found himself approached by a human male, who looked slightly amused, but mainly angered. “You know you have to pay for all those drinks, right?” he said. Spock surmised he was the owner of the establishment._

_“I am aware of this fact,” Spock said. “You may access my credit account.”_

_“Yeah, alright,” He said, narrowing his eyes at Jim. “Name?”_

_“You will find my information under ‘Spock’.”_

_The owner nodded, leaving Spock to continue his mission. Dragging Jim out of the establishment, he soon found the human to be especially…clingy._

_“Heeeey, Spooock!” Jim whined, wrapping his other arm around him. “You’re really warm, you know that? Like a giant water heater! Except you’re more…fleshy than a water heater! And softer…almost like a girl!”_

_Spock did not take offense at Jim’s comparison of him to either a water heater or a female. Vulcans were not offended by words. Especially not the words of a drunk man. He situated the human to a more comfortable place on his shoulder, ignoring his babblings. His shields were starting to drop; he could focus on many things at once, but Jim’s constant chatter and wriggling were causing him to give a lot of his attention to the human. He could start to sense Jim’s thoughts sneaking in… _warmthAffectionFriendshipExhaustion ___were the more distinguished emotions he could sense._

__No. By categorizing these emotions, he was only allowing more to seep through. He fought to hold his shields up, but it was a particularly taxing ordeal. Spock was only relieved of this duty when he finally got to the ship, opening the doors and dropping Jim onto the closest chair he could find._ _

__He let out a deep breath he had been aware he was holding in. The door closed behind him, giving him the privacy to release himself. Spock looked over at Jim, who was currently passed out in his chair. He let out another breath. No one would witness this display of weakness._ _

__There was a knock at the door._ _

__He closed his eyes._ _

__He got up._ _

__He answered the door._ _

__“Aye, there you are! I’ve bin wonderin’ if the lad’s here! Imma fixing to leave in about an hour!”_ _

__Spock blinked. The man had a peculiar accent—Scottish, he believed. The man’s words took a minute to process (Jim’s intoxicated state had dimmed his senses) but once they had been processed he felt he had to answered._ _

__“I apologize on behalf of him. He is currently…intoxicated.”_ _

__The man’s eyes lit up. “Well, why dinna you say so in the first place? A bit of scotch in his system, eh?” the man nudged Spock’s side, causing him to instantly freeze him._ _

__“Something like that…,” he said hesitantly. “I believe it might be a while before is ready to be transported.”_ _

__“Oh, that’s just fine! A wee delay isn’t much!”_ _

__Spock was suddenly seized by the urge to move away from the man. Inclining his head slightly, he began to back up. “If you will excuse me, I will gather Jim’s belongings,” he said._ _

__“No problem! I’ll be here!”_ _

__Closing the door in the man’s face, he strode over to Jim, who was still wearing his drawstring backpack. Carefully he began to pry the bag off of him, which, after several minutes, was extracted. He did not want to speak to the odd human again, but it seemed inevitable. He walked back to the door, and when he opened it, the human was leaning against the bulk of the ship._ _

__“You’ve got a nice ship here, lad!” he said when he spotted Spock. “Maybe not a star ship, but she gits you were you need to go, doesn’t she?”_ _

__“The ship is acceptable,” he said, handing the man the bag._ _

__“‘Acceptable’? She’s a beauty! Ah, thanks.” The man tucked the bag under his arm. “Well, I must be getting to my ship! Nice meeting you, Mr. Spock!”_ _

__He had not gotten his name. That was the thought that came to mind as the man was walking away. He had forgotten to acquire the man’s name. Spock turned away. Jim would come to know it sooner or later, it was illogical to run after the man to acquire a simple name._ _

__Walking back inside, he was greeted with a moan._ _

__“Ugh…I feel horrible…,” Jim groaned, rubbing the back of his head. His words still slurred, but he seemed in better condition than when Spock had found him._ _

__“You are still intoxicated,” he informed Jim._ _

__“Yeah…no shit. I feel like shit,” he groaned. “And like I’m about to throw up.”_ _

__“The restroom is down the hall.”_ _

__Jim looked up at him and glared. “I hate you.”_ _

__“That is not what you expressed 10.3 minutes ago. You said I was a ‘very cool guy’.”_ _

__Jim’s glare intensified. “Yep, definitely hate you.”_ _

__Spock raised an eyebrow. “If you insist,” he said. “The pilot of your transportation just left. I do not know his name, but he did have what I believe what was a Scottish accent and an unfortunately cheery disposition.”_ _

__“What…did you not ‘like’ him or something?”_ _

__“I did ‘like’ nor ‘dislike’ him.”_ _

__“Ah, right, because Vulcans don’t ‘like’ things, right?”_ _

__“That is correct.”_ _

__Jim scowled at him._ _

__And then he heard it._ _

__Without his Vulcan hearing, he would have not heard it for several more moments. But he did. It was a quick, sharp noise. Judging by the volume it was not in range to harm them, but the winds that swept through a few moments later did disturb them._ _

__“What the fuck was that?” Jim said, getting to his feet. He wobbled for a few moments, but stabilized himself. They exchanged glances and nodded._ _

__Cautiously they ventured outside. Others too were emerging from their ships to see where the noise had come from. And then a man ran from his ship, holding something in his hand. He stopped in the middle of the floor, rose the item far above his head, and screamed:_ _

__“DIE YOU FUCKERS.”_ _

__And then dropped the item._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oKAY LET ME EXPLAIN MYSELF WITH SCOTTY. I HAD TO USE A 'SCOTTISH TRANSLATOR BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO WRITE A SCOTTISH ACCENT. so yeah. and woohoo, cliffhanger. WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN? FIND OUT WHENEVER THE FUCK I POST THE NEXT CHAPTER


End file.
